


Written

by gamesformay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Gen, God!Chuck - Freeform, I love that I get to use that tag, M/M, blatant shredding of genesis 1, cap'n crunch, yep there's an apostrophe there look it up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamesformay/pseuds/gamesformay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Chuck ate some Cap'n Crunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written

 

 

In the beginning, Chuck ate some Cap'n Crunch.

 

Strictly speaking, this shouldn't have been possible, since Cap'n Crunch hadn't been invented yet. Neither had any of the other stuff in his cluttered little living room, like, for instance, the tottering heaps of papers and notebooks antagonizing every available surface. Nothing had been. Invented, that is.

Yet, here it all was. His job had perks like that.

  
And this? Well, this was a pretty big moment for him, as far as his job went. That's why he was eating Cap'n Crunch instead of getting a drink, like he really wanted. The booze usually helped his process. It seemed to him like a poor choice, though, to bring the whole of Creation into being while buzzed.

  
He chewed as he worked and paged through his endless notes, writing stuff in and scratching stuff out. Yeah, yeah, he could have just used his computer like a normal person to do his outlining, but Chuck was a purist: he liked all that old-fashioned crap. Anyway, his hardcore carpal tunnel was the least of his worries at the moment.

  
Chuck was having problems with his characters.

  
Actually, he wasn't. That was the problem. The first thing they tell you about writing (or they will, anyway) is that no one likes a perfect character. Stuff isn't supposed to be perfect. Good people screw up, friends betray each other, and really delicious cereal scratches the crap out of the roof of your mouth- it's the way of the (as of yet uncreated) world. There's no relatability in stuff that's perfect, no sympathy. Chuck loved his Heavenly children, he really did (or he will, anyway), but right now they were all pretty freakin' unsympathetic.

  
He knew that he would bring them into the light of Creation, and that they would be beautiful, wielding all the awesome power of Heaven. He knew this. He also knew that he would wind up kicking himself for a few dozen millenia because he'd focused so much on the "warriors of Heaven" part that he'd let the whole "free will" thing slip to the side, let it slip so much that they turned into mindless fighting machines, and what kind of shitty parent does that make him, huh? He knew that one day he wouldn't be around when his children needed him the most. They'd never been allowed to run things by themselves before. He knew they'd suffer for it.  
The worst part was that it didn't have to be like that.

  
Chuck's notebook was stuffed full. Character studies, mostly, a shit ton of them, and every individual to ever exist had a page in there. Not just his Earthly sons and daughters, either. He'd painstakingly scratched each of his celestial children into being on those pages. He gave them names and talents and personality quirks; he gave them favorite colors and short tempers and dumb senses of humor. He gave them identities, each and every one of them; the free will they needed and deserved had been there since the beginning, the very Beginning. They didn't know how to use it.

  
And that really, really blew.

  
What blew even more was that he had no clue how to fix it. A handful of them would rebel and Fall, sure. But when it came down to it, no force in the universe was (Would be. Verb tenses get confusing in living rooms that encompass all that Is, all that Ever Was, and all that Ever Shall Be.) stronger than an angel's obediance.

  
Chuck chewed. A space of time somewhere between a few minutes and several millenia passed in contemplative silence.

  
"There is that one thing," he muttered to himself.

  
Yeah, there was That One Thing. But...  
He shifted uncomfortably. That One Thing freaked Chuck out a little.  
It was a new idea, he hadn't even thought up a name for it yet, but the whole premise was...well, it was weird. Flat-out weird. This shit was powerful: it made lives and wrecked them, inspired incredible beauty and toppled empires, sparked joy and destruction. And, the whole damn time, it had everyone convinced that it wasn't any great shakes- a cuddly, fluffy sort of something. It flitted around aimlessly, quietly fucking up everything in its wake.  
Chuck can't remember how drunk he was when he thought that one up.

  
It wasn't looking like he had many options, though. And, as freaky as That One Thing was, he couldn't help but be fascinated by it. Chuck had a certain fondness for things that made no sense.

  
"Okay, let's do this," he decided aloud. "But...who?"

  
He scoured his notes. Really, he could have just plucked any random soul from the pages of human history and then tweaked the situation as he saw fit- it really wasn't the child of Earth that was the important one in this equation. Chuck, though, was a writer. He needed something with drama. And, turning a page, he found it.  
The Apocalypse, 21st century. He hums, intrigued. He'd almost forgotten about that. Turmoil all across Creation: Heaven and Hell waging war, Earth as the battlefield. Chuck MIA, his children bickering themselves to death, finding enemies in each other as well as in the demons, as well as in...

  
Hmm.

  
Now _there's_ a protagonist.

  
Not just any human to awaken freedom in an angel, to set the example for the rest. No, not nearly good enough- it'd have to be the one human to ever cause mass dischord in the celestial realm, the one who deliberately stomped all over the Will of Heaven (Or its current administration, anyway) with big muddy boots. Everyone loves an anti-hero.  
Shivering with creative zeal, Chuck settled down for the final step. The angel. Which of his first children would have this freaking huge bullet point scribbled across their destiny? Not anyone obvious. No one who wouldn't shock a whole lot with trying to overthrow the Heavenly order. Someone surprising. Someone ordinary. Not too ordinary. Someone high up the ranks. Not too high up. Important. Respected. Obediant. Someone like...

  
Chuck had a pretty good sense of irony. He invented it, after all.

  
Chuck knew it was unfair of him to think of the angel as the Heavenly realm's cuddly kid brother; the guy was lethal, of course. One of the most gifted strategists of all of the Host, deadly on the battlefield. He'd burn entire cities without blinking a (metaphorical) eye when Heaven commanded it, his ruthlessness surpassed only by his devotion to Heaven, his obediance. Chuck, though, couldn't help the fond smile that slid up his face. The angel was (is, will be, has been, etc., ad nauseam) Chuck's last Creation before starting work on the physical plane. Even among his Heavenly children, the last of the angels was different: his devotion outstripped all the others', was the truest. The youngest of the Host will save them all. But, first, he's got a lot to learn.

And learn he will.

  
Chuck looked over his notes one last time. After forty years of unjust damnation, the Righteous Man who spills blood in Hell shall be raised from Perdition by the Last Son of the Celestial Realm. In the fires of the Pit their souls shall be inexorably joined, and what Chuck has joined, let no one put asunder.  
(Chuck, thinking that was a pretty snappy line, gave it a nice bold underline. Just in case.)

  
Together, they will bring about the end of the End; defy Heaven, Hell, and all of Creation to unite it once more. Death and pain will not harm them. Death and pain will bring them together.

  
And so it is written.

  
"This is GOLD!" Chuck declared.

  
He finished his Cap'n Crunch. Like any good writer, Chuck knew when it was time to stop outlining and get to work. He rose, cracked his neck, and made his way across the living room. As he reached for the doorknob, Chuck found himself turning, one more time, toward his notebook.

  
"Good luck, boys."

  
He opened the door and looked out at the big dark Nothing, his blank page. First things first.

  
"Let's get some light in here," he said.

 

  
And there was.

 

 


End file.
